Time Out
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: It was bound to happen sooner or later.


**Disclaimer**: These are not my characters and I make no profit from them.

**Rated**: PG

**Author's notes**: Matt is eight. If you want to read (or avoid) the Matt stories, they are, in chronologic order: '_Shift', 'McCormick, McCormick, McCormick and Hardcastle', 'Cake and Ice Cream'_, and '_This Far and No Further'._ And this will make a lot more sense if you've read that last one.

The spaghetti dinner is borrowed from Cheri's recent story, '_Starting Slow'._ She also beta-ed this and nudged it in the direction of having an actual ending.

Many thanks to Owl, too, who, with the timely application of duct tape and circuit breakers, was able to come through with additional corrections . . . _and_ lend me the law clinic and the ever-faithful Joyce.

**Time Out**

By L. M. Lewis

The call came at one in the afternoon, on a busy day in which Mr. McCormick had not taken a break for lunch. Joyce, the secretary, fielded it and, hearing it was from Matt's school, transferred it right back to the office.

The judge had just emerged from the consultation room, with a legal pad under one arm. He caught the worried look on Joyce's face and then a quick jerk of her chin in the direction of the back office. "I hope Matt's not sick. They just said it was important."

Hardcastle frowned, turned on his heel, and made it to the door of Mark's office just in time to hear him say, "Yes, I can be there in twenty minutes." His tone was serious but not panicky, and the younger man was frowning, himself, as he hung up the receiver.

"What's up? Matt's okay?"

McCormick cut him a distracted glance. He was already getting to his feet and slipping his suit coat on. "Ah," he said, "Matt's teacher. He's, um, fine." He ran his fingers back through his hair, still looking like he hadn't quite sorted out what he'd been told. "There was a fight."

"_Matt_?" Hardcastle's question had a note of disbelief in it.

"Yeah, on the playground. Him and another kid, ah, Jimmy Peterson. He's mentioned him before. I thought they were friends."

"Yeah, well," the judge shrugged, trying for lightness, "third grade. It happens. Nobody got hurt?"

"Nosebleed. Jimmy." Mark was rummaging through his pockets, fishing for the keys, moving toward the door. He froze suddenly and then turned back to the older man. "Dammit, Judge, this is not _like_ him."

"No," Hardcastle admitted, "but it happens. Didn't you ever get into any playground fights? Someone calls somebody a name, a little pushing and shoving?"

Mark had gone a shade paler and, with that, the judge realized just what name might have been slung in the younger man's direction. He repeated himself quietly, "It happens."

"Not to Matt," Mark replied flatly. "Not before this."

"Okay, well, come on; let's go figure it out."

"You don't have to come."

"Yeah, I do," Hardcastle smiled. "He might need a lawyer . . . or a grandfather."

Mark was moving toward the door again. He shook his head once, briefly. "I'm not gonna yell at him."

"How do you know?"

"Well," McCormick's smile was a little grim, "because it would be gross hypocrisy for one—"

"Never stopped me."

"And for another," Mark added, with the voice of long experience from the receiving end, "the more you yell, the less they listen."

00000

McCormick drove a little faster than was prudent. The twenty minutes became fifteen. The judge said nothing, only noting the lines of tension on the younger man's face and wondering if he'd been told more than he was telling.

For himself, Hardcastle was having a little trouble picturing Mark's son starting a brawl on the playground. The kid had his father's fast patter and quick smile. He'd stand up to a bully, most likely, at least the judge hoped he would. On the other hand, he hoped he wouldn't be friends with a bully in first place. But schoolyard justice could be a pretty rough thing, and, anyway, it was hard to reason in the absence of facts.

Mark hadn't said much after they'd gotten in the car. Now, pulling up to the school, he let out a sigh and just sat for a moment.

"I thought I'd taught him better." He was staring out over the dash as if it was a window to another place and time. "I thought it would be _different_ for him."

"Well," Hardcastle said practically, "it is. Doesn't mean it's perfect, though. Kids aren't perfect."

This got him a wry grin. "No, I never said that." There was a moment's thoughtful pause and then, "You got into fights when you were a kid?"

"Sure," the older man shrugged. "With Gerald a few times. Lord, he was enough to try the patience of a saint. And I was no saint . . . a few times at school, too."

"What happened?"

"You mean, if we got caught?"

A nod from the younger man.

"Well, if my dad found out, I got a trip to the woodshed. 'You got enough spunk to get into a fight?' That's what my dad'd say."

A shadow crossed Mark's face again. "What was the sense of that? How do you teach a kid to stop fighting by whupping him?"

"A whupping?" Hardcastle shook his head. "Heck, no. I had to chop a load of firewood. Hickory. Small pieces. The kind my mom needed to bake bread. God, I hated chopping those little pieces. He figured if I had enough energy to get into that kind of trouble at school, it must mean I didn't have enough chores to do." He sighed. "But, at least we got some good bread out of it."

"Oh." Mark smiled. "Got it."

The shadow was not completely gone. Hardcastle could see the pain etched into the other man's expression. He knew, from occasional allusions, that Mark's uncle had not been so progressive. _You mean, he was a vicious sot._

As if in answer to the unspoken thought, the younger man said, almost lightly, "Well, at least we didn't have a woodshed."

00000

Mark took the steps slowly and heavily, curiously divided between gratitude that Hardcastle had accompanied him, and a reluctance to involve him in whatever he was about to find out. _What, that your kid's no better than you are? _

They were just inside the door when he turned to the older man. "Look, maybe you should stay out here. I dunno."

Surprisingly, the judge didn't protest. _Just as reluctant as I am._

"No problem." He took a place against the wall, in the vestibule. "I'll wait." Another dry smile. "Just make sure you read him his rights off the card, okay?"

McCormick managed a smile in return, and a vague wave of the hand, as he headed down the hall to the principal's office. The smile had evaporated before he turned the corner. The door was open a crack and his two quick knocks nudged it further. He heard a quiet "come in."

In the anteroom, across from the counter, the two boys were sitting side by side. Whatever differences that they might have had seemed to have been subsumed by mutual dread and misery. Jimmy Peterson was a heavy-set blond kid. Matt wasn't in his weight-class. Still, the other boy was holding a blood-dotted Kleenex in one hand, as if it might be considered as exhibit 'A' in his defense.

Mark immediately and summarily dealt with a quick twitch of pride, that Matt had held his own against a kid who had both weight and reach on him. _But it was wrong, wrong, wrong. Really. _Old instincts, carefully interred under layers of more constructive behavior, quivered. _That's not for him, though; he'll never have to be that way._

He kept his expression flat as his eyes traced over his son, looking for any signs of damage. Matt, in turn, kept his eyes down, not even bothering to plead his case. He had his hands on the edge of the seat, on either side of his knees. He was leaning forward a little, studying the floor in front of him.

McCormick nodded to the secretary, Mrs. Nicholls. "You can go right in." She gestured to Matt as well. "She's waiting for you."

Matt rose, shuffling past his father, still not looking up, except for a quick glance out of the corner of his eye. They filed into the inner office. Ms. Quigley looked up from her papers solemnly, and pointed a seat out to Mark. Matt stayed on his feet, slightly to the side of him but not attempting to make any contact.

"Mr. McCormick," she said in simple greeting, flat and stern. "I've already talked with Matt as well as with Jimmy. Neither of them has been able to provide me with a clear understanding of what occurred but, in any regard, school policy is very clear. Physical violence earns a mandatory one-day suspension. And reinstatement requires a written apology from the student, in the form of an essay in which the offender explains _why_ his behavior was not acceptable." She fixed her gaze steadily on Matt. "You understand everything I said to you earlier?"

He raised his eyes for the first time. Mark wasn't sure if he was the only one who could see it, the look of carefully-concealed defiance, but the only movement his son made was a slow nod of the head.

"Very well," Ms. Quigley said, in a tone that indicated she thought things were not well at all. Then, unexpectedly, her expression softened into something that looked like regret. "Matt," she said, in a tone punctuated by a small sigh, "I really don't understand. This is not like you. Not like Jimmy, either."

As if on cue, a murmur of voices was heard from the outer office, with one, a man's, rapidly rising above the other, a few short, curt words obviously directed at the other boy. "What the hell were you thinking?"

And the voice was familiar. Not precisely identifiable, but he'd heard it before and not too long ago. Mark took a sharp breath in, finally connecting the dots. _Peterson, assistant D.A. The Olmsby case. Last month._

He shot a quick, questioning look at his son, who had mastered the family art of giving nothing away.

Ms. Quigley was talking again, looking peeved at the noise from outside and ready to dismiss them quickly. "You'll need to get tomorrow's assignments from Ms. Schullman. Your suspension is not considered a day off." She glanced at Mark, as if to be certain he understood. "And we'll expect the paper first thing Monday, since you'll have three days to work on it."

Matt nodded. His look of defiance had melted into simple, weary resignation. Mark recognized that one, too. Anger and rebellion were hard work and tended to take it out of a person. McCormick stood, and said goodbye, and tried to shepherd the kid out, feeling him shy away from the contact.

In the anteroom, Peterson looked up; anger transmuted briefly into . . . _what? Guilt?_ The wheels turned once, and everything clicked into place. And why it hadn't occurred to him earlier, Mark could only blame on flagrant denial. He managed to get Matt and himself out into the hallway without any further confrontation. _Now that would have been instructive, if he'd swung on you. Do as I say and not as I do._

He pointed left. "Go, get your stuff. Meet me and grandpa at the main doors. Okay?" It might have been his imagination, but another flinty look of defiance had streaked across Matt's face. Then he ducked his head, and turned, and was gone without a word.

00000

The judge was waiting for him, still patiently leaning against the wall in the vestibule. When he got close enough, he said, in a low and inquiring tone, "I saw Dennis Peterson, the D.A., go by. Is he—?"

"Yeah," Mark answered abruptly and without elaboration. "I never realized."

Hardcastle digested this for a moment, and then, "Matt's okay?"

"Both of 'em are."

Hardcastle frowned up the empty hallway. Then, after another moment's pause, "Was it—?"

"Dunno yet," Mark clipped the question off. "He went to get his schoolwork. Got a suspension. One day."

Hardcastle looked doubtful. "You mean he gets a three-day weekend out of this?"

"I hear the holding cells are a little crowded down on Bauchet Street, so they're releasing him on my recognizance," McCormick replied, with very little humor.

The judge frowned. "That's not what I meant."

"I know." There was a sigh. "Don't worry; it won't be fun. He's got an essay to write and . . ." his voice trailed off, and then came back sharply. "Should I call Kathy right away? What the hell am I going to tell her?" He looked down at his watch and then muttered. "Probably can't even reach her until this evening. I left the number back at the office."

"No rush," Hardcastle seconded the cowardice without a moment's thought. He stopped just short of encouraging outright lying, but the worried look that crossed his face gave witness to the fact that he'd been thinking about it. "She won't be back until Sunday, right? And you'll have a lot better handle on it then and . . ." His words trailed off. The shape of the most likely handle had already been starkly outlined for both of them.

"Yeah," Mark agreed, apparently willing to be led. "Yeah, why worry her?"

"So, we'll go back to the office, finish up there. Matt can get a start on his schoolwork, and we can head over to the estate when we're done. You're still coming, right?"

"Well," Mark frowned, "that _is_ kind of like rewarding him, isn't it? Maybe I ought to just take him home."

"Nope," Hardcastle shook his head immediately, only working out the reasoning a moment afterwards. "I . . . think you still you ought to come." He smiled gently. "I'll find him some hickory to chop."

"I'm not gonna whale on him," Mark said, in half-serious indignation. "Really."

"I know that," his smile had become a little more serious, too. "I still think you should come over." And he left the rest unspoken. Now that they both had an inkling of what they were up against, he thought that Mark should have some back-up. Then, as if that was settled, he went back to the earlier topic. "Denny Peterson, he's one of Thompson's protégé's. He didn't like you too much _before_ that Olmsby thing."

"I know," Mark said flatly. "He knows I was—"

"I dunno," Hardcastle cut him off, then added a quiet, "probably. I think it's pretty common knowledge." Then he made a motion with his eyes. Matt had turned the corner and was trudging down the hall, burdened with a backpack, and an air of gloom that was entirely foreign to him.

"Okay," Mark had glanced over his shoulder and now went on, almost matter–of-factly. "We'll go back to the office. You got everything?" This last bit was directed downward to the boy, who nodded sullenly and didn't look up at either man. "Right, then," his father sighed. "Let's go."

00000

The ride back to the office was wrapped in silence thick enough to cut. Their back-seat passenger even seemed to be breathing quietly, and his eyes were turned to the side, giving no point of contact to either of them.

They parked him in the conference room, with the door left open and Joyce keeping one eye on what was supposed to be some schoolwork getting done. Mark had retreated to his office, to stare at his own pile of work for a decent interval. Hardcastle made coffee and then phone calls, clearing the board for the rest of the afternoon.

He delivered a cup to McCormick, who looked wistfully wishful that it was something stronger.

"Okay," the judge said grimly, "I think three o'clock shows enough work ethic, just this once. Let's hit the road."

This got him a brief, reluctant look.

"Come on," Hardcastle insisted. "Won't get any easier. I'm giving you twenty minutes to sort this stuff out," he gestured at the cluttered desk, "then we're outta here."

He strolled back up the hallway, gave Joyce a nod, and then glanced into the conference room. The tousled head, bent in apparent concentration over a worksheet of math problems, did not turn to greet him. He thought he might have preferred excuses, or even prevarication, to this wall. He'd seen it enough times from McCormick, and learned to leave it be. But he'd never encountered it before from the child he considered as close as any blood-kin, as close as he and Mark.

He cleared his throat once; the boy looked up slowly, with a perfect mastery of pretended new awareness. He still didn't say anything. The judge found his own words stuck in his throat for a moment. There were, as far as he knew, no pictures extant of Mark as a child, excepting one—well, make that _two_—of an official nature, that had been taken in a police station in Jersey City, when he was nearly twice the age Matt was now.

But the grim reserve on Matt's face was a window to what his father must've looked like, when he was of a like age._ This is bad; Mark said it would be. _

_But we didn't keep it a secret, not really._

_But kids know what they want to know, and deny the rest. _He sighed quietly. This got no further response from Matt.

"Okay, kiddo. Time to pack up. You can finish it up at my place, okay?"

For this, he got only the barest of nods in answer. Then the boy slid down off the chair, turning away to gather up his books. On any other day, he wouldn't have stopped talking, words bubbled out of him; that, and boundless energy, those were his most enduring traits. Matt without words was a stranger.

Hardcastle waited patiently in the doorway, and watched him sling the bag over one wiry shoulder. Then Matt trudged by him and into the hall, brushing past for only a moment's contact, then away, out of reach. Mark was in the doorway of his own office, briefcase in hand and an expression of weary resignation. He intercepted his son with one hand on his free shoulder. The judge winced—the shying away was visible.

"My car or Grandpa's truck?" Mark asked quietly.

Matt was already past him, had made it to the back door. The words were tossed off, tight and harsh, just as he passed through.

"He's _not_ my grandpa."

00000

Mark had caught the casually flung shrapnel full in the chest, and was standing there like a man who hadn't figured out how serious the damage was yet. It was the judge who stepped up behind him with a hand on his shoulder, a reassuring pat and a voice low, near to his ear.

"That's nothing. It's the hurt talking. He's been hurt and he wants to lash out at someone else."

"Why the hell you? _You_ didn't do anything to him." Mark had his hand up to his temple, rubbing hard.

Hardcastle managed a shrug. "Not to him, maybe, but to you."

"Judge," Mark was looking increasingly stricken, "I never, _ever_ . . . I swear . . ."

"And maybe I'm the safer one," Hardcastle smiled. "I dunno. Kids have a way of knowing how much we can take. Maybe he figures I can take it."

"Can you?"

"If I have to." The judge kept the smile as natural as he could. He was watching Mark closely, to see if it would be believed. "Okay," he said, after a moment more, "let's get home. You take Matt. Pick up some burgers or something on the way."

Mark nodded silently and followed the boy out the back. He found him standing quietly, eyes down, near the Volvo. It occurred to him that he and his son had not exchanged more than a dozen words since they'd left Matt's school. He'd been assuming there was some anger on his son's part, at the core of the silence—anger at being lied to, perhaps, or at least at not having been told all of the truth. Maybe anger, too, at Mark himself, for what he was, what he _had_ been.

_But, ah, there's the paradox—either I was guilty, or Hardcastle was wrong. You're only supposed to have to choose up sides for dodge ball out on the playground. Not this._

He unlocked the door and watched his son slide into his seat, eyes forward, seatbelt fastened in place without being asked. Mark walked around to the driver's side, a tight wave to Hardcastle, climbing into his truck. A moment later he was pulling into traffic, and a few minutes after that, the truck was lost from sight; Hardcastle obviously wasn't making any effort to keep up.

Deafening silence again. Mark ignored his own deep desire to shout some sense into the kid. After all, Matt hadn't said anything more than the facts. _And how could the truth be so far removed from that?_

He thought of eight different opening gambits, from anger to pleading. In the end he settled for more silence. He knew a wall when he saw one.

00000

Hardcastle let the other vehicle drift away from him, into the flow of traffic. Being alone felt oddly appropriate. He wondered if Mark could find the right words, once he and Matt were sitting side by side with nowhere to run to. He had doubts; if they were easy words, they would have been said a long time ago.

And if Mark couldn't get through to him, what likelihood was there for anyone else? _And, anyway, no one can give you someone else. People have to give themselves._ Mark had. It was one of those little miracles. And the harder you looked at it, the more unlikely it appeared. _Does he even understand it himself? Could he explain it to his son?_

He shook his head. _Time out. You told him you'd given his father a time out. And Mark had laughed about it when he'd heard._ And somewhere, deep inside, Matt must've always known that he was not his grandfather. He'd simply chosen to ignore the facts, and accept the reality.

He pulled over, edging the truck against the curb. Things had gotten a little blurry for a moment. He leaned back, his hand on his forehead, and then swiped his nose. Families continue on, he thought, straddling these fault lines, never sure when the next big temblor will hit.

_But he oughtn't to have heard it in the schoolyard. That was wrong._

00000

He pulled into the drive, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the lawn. The truck wasn't there yet, but couldn't be that far behind, Mark thought. He took the sack of burgers from Matt and got out, walking toward the front door without waiting for his son. The few words they had exchanged between the drive-through and home (_you still think of it as that, after ten years away?) _had been perfunctorily answered by the boy, the merest discussion of his assignments. They hadn't even ventured into the more dangerous waters of The Essay.

Now Matt was following him up to the steps, or at least going in the same direction as he was; there was no sense of connectedness between them. Mark fished his key ring out of his pocket and undid the lock. It was still home. He did not stand on ceremony here. He stepped inside, into the darkened but familiar hallway. Matt stood just outside. Mark could feel him like a shadow across his back.

"The first time I came here, it was the middle of the night." He spoke quietly, smiling to himself. Matt couldn't see that, but he couldn't help it, the memory was as vivid as if it had been yesterday—and it made him smile. "There was a lady . . . Sarah." His smile drifted down a little, in acknowledgement of the intervening years. "I've told you about Sarah, haven't I?"

Matt said nothing.

"Well, she was a little tetchy with me. Wanted me to stay in the gardener's trailer." He frowned and stepped a little further down the hallway, not looking over his shoulder. "You never saw that. It's been gone a long time. But grandpa," he paused, then revised it abruptly, "the _judge_, he told her to take me to the gatehouse." He went past the den, and turned right at the dining room. "And after he'd helped me get the guys who'd hurt . . . who'd _killed_ my friend Flip—that's the guy who designed the Coyote . . ." he paused again, as if he'd lost his train of thought.

"And then we came back here, and that night he cooked spaghetti. You know grandpa's spaghetti?"

This time he'd said it slowly, with deliberate emphasis. He heard a small 'yeah' voiced from behind him. He smiled again. "And he invited me over here, from the gatehouse. I didn't want to come. I was nervous, I guess." He set the sack down on the table.

"But I guess I was more nervous _not_ to." He risked a glance over his shoulder. He saw Matt's slightly quizzical look. He'd never had any reason to be nervous around his grandfather. "He served us spaghetti right here, in the dining room. And I did the dishes afterwards."

Matt's puzzled look was hardening. Mark turned and edged a seat out from the table. It was the place where he always sat when he was here. _Sixteen years?_ He took a chance. _Now or never_.

"What did Jimmy Peterson say to you out there today?"

There was silence, and, for a moment, Mark thought there'd be nothing more. Then came a shrug,

He pushed a little harder. "Then why'd ya hit him?"

Another shrug, and then, "He was lying." This last part was spoken in a quietly intense voice.

"About what?" Mark asked gently.

"_You._" Matt had gotten even quieter, even more intense. "He said you were a . . . re--," he paused in a moment's thought. "A recidivist."

Mark felt an almost irresistible urge to laugh. Of all the terms of abuse ever hurled across a schoolyard, this had to be one of the most arcane. He thought the Peterson family dinner table conversation had to be pretty darned interesting, though.

He sat back in his seat, suddenly realizing that his son was studying him closely. "Well," he finally said, "I've been called a lot worse." The worry hadn't left Matt's face, and now it was being joined by confusion. Mark sighed. "Look, do you even know what he was saying?"

"Yeah," the sullenness was back. "He said you were in prison. He said you were in San Quentin."

Mark let out a sharp breath. The truth could still sound pretty harsh, even after all this time. It just depended on who was saying it.

"Okay," he said slowly, "I know we've never sat down and talked about it, but you must've heard me say it, right? You knew I'd done time. So, you knew that part wasn't a lie." He watched Matt's face; he could tell there was something else. "So, why did you hit him?"

More silence. He didn't even bother with a shrug. Finally he murmured something, almost too quiet to catch. "He said . . ."

Mark nodded his encouragement.

"He said grandpa _sent_ you there . . .and he shoulda sent you back, because you were a re . . ."

"Recidivist."

"Yeah," Matt said, picking up a little steam. "And you fast talked your way out of it and . . . and you've been doing it ever since." The least part came out in almost a flurry and, after the briefest of pauses, "Grandpa wouldn't have done that." But it was clear that, despite his denial, Matt already believed it was so.

Apparently recidivism paled in comparison with this other accusation. Mark sighed again. He supposed he should be grateful for his son's loyalty. He supposed he could explain about the fundamentals of the American jury system, and California's mandatory sentencing policy, and his own checkered past, only the tip of which had managed to crawl onto his permanent record, thank God.

But he wasn't sure if any of these facts could be distilled down into something that would resemble the truth. He sat there for a moment, considering the nature of miracles. Then he dropped back a page in the conversation, as though the intervening confession had not occurred.

"We sat here, that night, and we ate spaghetti, and just talked." Mark paused again, focusing on the boy, trying to figure out if he still had him along. It was hard to tell. He leaned forward a little more in his seat. "We talked about cars and . . . and the Dodgers. We just _talked._" Mark looked at his son again, more confusion. He wasn't getting this part, and there really wasn't any way to explain such an ordinary miracle. Mark sighed.

"And then I asked him about that, about what I had to do to stay out of San Quentin." He frowned, and then went on, "Cause he really _could_ have sent me back to prison just about any time he wanted. That's how it works, if you screw up a second time. And I'd screwed up pretty bad when I tried to deal with the man who'd killed my friend."

Matt's eyes were on him now. Mark was pretty sure he'd never explained exactly where the Coyote had come from._ He's eight; how much should he have known?_ Another sigh. There was no taking it back now, but without that, how could he understand any of the rest?

"And I _never_ wanted to go back there, to San Quentin." He paused again, calculating the weight of the next words.

"Prison is horrible. It's hard to . . . remember you are a human being when you're in a place like that."

"Grandpa sent you there," Matt said, on an almost inaudible breath.

"_No_," Mark insisted, "not really. The State of California did that. Not one person.

What your grandfather did was everything in his power to make sure I didn't go _back_ there. He gave me a second chance. And he believed I wasn't going to screw up again, and eventually he made me believe it, too." Mark reached out, captured one of the boy's wrists in his hand, tugged him a little closer. "Does any of this make sense?" There was no nod, only a small but persistent frown from his son.

"He knew what I was; he knew what I'd done—all of it, not just that stupid Porsche," he added, almost in an aside to himself, "but he still had expectations." Mark was frowning now, too. He thought maybe he'd never even explained this to himself. He looked up again, suddenly. "You know what expectations are?" A slight shake of the boy's head.

Mark smiled. "They're _hope_." His eyes moved past the boy, passed over the room, trying to remember what it had felt like, to be without that. It had been a long time. His gaze finally lighted back on Matt, still not sure if he was getting it. Mark's smile broadened into a grin. "It was a kind of practical, _applied_ hope. There were a lot of chores and a few time outs . . . but always hope."

Matt was still frowning, but it had taken on a thoughtful, introspective quality, and he hadn't tried to pull away. Mark risked a hug, which was neither rejected nor returned, par for the course these days. He put the boy back at arm's length again, giving him a quick study.

"Want a burger before they get cold?"

This got him a nod. He pulled out the chair next to him and Matt edged onto it, still slightly strained, but appearing willing to at least go through the motions of normal.

00000

The door was opened from within almost before he'd gotten the key in the lock. It was Mark, looking concerned and a little irritated. "Where _were_ you? I was about to call Frank and ask for an APB."

Hardcastle looked down at his watch. "Hasn't been _that_ long," he insisted.

"Long enough." Mark stood aside a little, to let him in. "Where'd you go?"

The judge shrugged. "Just pulled over for a bit. Just thinking. Anyway, I thought maybe you needed a little time with him." He looked past McCormick, into the otherwise empty hallway. "How's he doing?"

Mark glanced over his shoulder, in the direction of the dining room. "Better . . . maybe. He's working on his essay. You hungry?"

"Nah."

"Me neither," McCormick agreed. "Which is good, because the burgers are cold."

"Should I . . .?" He gestured vaguely in the direction of the other room.

"Nah," Mark said, "Give him some space." He pointed to the den.

The judge nodded once and led the way. He bypassed his desk and went straight to a chair, feeling himself drop into it heavily. McCormick was still looking at him with a concerned expression. He pushed it away with a gesture of annoyance. "I'm fine."

Mark managed his own nod, but still looked doubtful. "Anyway," the younger man continued, "we talked some." He'd paused on that thought, and then, after a moment, he added, "I explained things."

Hardcastle hoped his eyebrows hadn't drifted up too far. That seemed to be the end of Mark's statement of events. _Lord knows, I'd like to have heard that one._ He didn't say it out loud. _But I don't need to. It's enough that it is, without having to understand why._ He'd gradually become aware of the awkward silence that his thoughts were occupying.

"Wanna watch a movie, maybe?" he asked.

Mark flashed him a quick smile. "That's mean. Him in there slaving over a blank piece of paper and us in here watching a shoot-em-up."

"Well," Hardcastle glanced over his shoulder, "you said this wasn't supposed to be fun."

In the end they settled for just sitting there, in mutual contemplation, with only an occasional passing comment, but it was a surprisingly comfortable silence. And it was in one of those moments, that they both became aware of some fairly stealthy noises in the hallway.

"Just a sec." Mark was on his feet. "He might need some help with the punctuation."

"From _you_?" Hardcastle smiled.

This got him a cheerful grimace. "That's rich, coming from a guy who wouldn't know what to do with a semicolon if it came up and bit him in the—"

"Shh."

Mark followed the judge's eyes with a quick glance over his shoulder. Matt was standing in the hallway, just visible past the edge of the door, head hanging down a little, but eyes up, with the notebook clutched in front of him.

"Done," the boy said quietly.

Mark crossed the few feet between them and held out a hand. Matt passed it over and then skittered away, having muttered something that included the word 'math' before making his hasty departure.

Mark was left staring after him, then down at the notebook. He leaned against the doorframe and read it all the way through without much change in expression. Then he walked back down the steps and leaned over a little, handing it to the judge's reach. For a moment it looked like he might skitter off somewhere himself. But, instead, he slowly, almost cautiously, reclaimed his seat.

In the upper right corner of the page was Matt's name, and below that the date. The author had apparently not wasted too much effort on the working title. He'd written, quite simply, 'My Essay'. Two lines below that he'd started. It was beginner's cursive, painfully neat and upright, and too round, but very legible.

**'Sometimes I get really mad and do something stupid and then after that I wish I could go back and do it different. If you get angry and don't think you can hurt somebody. Then they feel bad and so do you. Because you hurt them. I wish I didn't get so mad sometimes it makes my dad sad and my grandpa. My dad doesn't want to tell my mom because she'll be sad too. **

**'I wish I could have a second chance and do it different. My dad says he got one and if I had one I would take back what I did and not hurt anybody. I would tell the people I hurt that I am sorry and I wouldn't do it again. I just got really mad and I didn't understand. **

**'I hope he will not be mad at me and I hope he will not be sad. I am really sorry.'**

Below that he had written his name out in full, Matthew Milton McCormick, as if to leave no question about who had written what and to whom. Hardcastle swiped his nose with the side of his hand and set the notebook down carefully on the armrest of the chair.

Mark gave him a sideward look. "Needs any semi-colons?" he asked quietly.

"Nah," the older man harrumphed gently. "Looks pretty damn near perfect to me."

The silence spun out again. Hardcastle heard nothing from the other room either. After a long moment, he cleared his throat and said, "I think maybe we should go fishing tomorrow."

Mark looked aside at him, startled, and then, a beat later, "This is _not_ supposed to be fun."

"Hah," the older man said with a quick smile, "You finally admit that fishing is fun?"

"All right," this had pried a small, answering smile from McCormick, "maybe a little. But . . . I just don't want him to think he can go around slugging somebody every time this gets thrown in his face." He paused, studying the rug at his feet. He finally lifted his head slowly and exhaled. "I don't think this'll be the last time," he added, with gloomy certainty.

"Well, no," Hardcastle agreed. "It's always something with kids." There was a shrug. "He'll figure out what to say. Hey," he added brightly, looking up, "maybe we can work on that between trout."

"You mean I'll get stuck catching the fish while you guys sit there and yak," Mark grumbled cheerfully. "Well," he started to get up, "if that's the plan, I better go make sure he's on top of the math."

Hardcastle held out a hand in a staying gesture. "Wait a sec; I'll do that. I am pretty good at that long division stuff," he said, already half up on his feet. "You give Kathy a call." He gave Mark a look and pointed to the phone on his desk. "She should be back at the hotel by now." He smiled and added, "You don't want her to call Joyce tomorrow and find out you're playing hooky."

Mark swallowed once and nodded. "I won't be lying if I tell her everything's all right, will I?" He smiled nervously.

Hardcastle pulled up short and frowned. "You will be if that's _all_ you tell her." Then he pointed again in the direction of the phone and didn't turn back toward the door until he saw McCormick on his feet.

00000

He'd gotten her almost on the first ring, prefaced everything with casual reassurance, and was astonished to find that Kathy was pretty understanding about it all, once she knew no one had been seriously hurt. It kind of worried him, as he hung up, to think that he might have to be the one holding the line on personal violence in the McCormick household.

After a moment of Gandhi-like contemplation, he got to his feet slowly, and strolled, still contemplatively, into the hallway. There were muffled sounds coming from the dining room. He headed that way. He saw them through the doorway, side by side at the table; heads together over something he hoped was math. But mostly they were talking—Matt was talking; Hardcastle was listening. The last few words were lost in the judge's laugh.

Mark cleared his throat and gave them both a stern look. "Math?" he asked firmly.

At least one of them had the decency to look guilty. Matt's expression, on the other hand, was almost comically innocent. "I told grandpa we'd get in trouble if he laughed too loud."

"Yeah," Mark shook his head in commiseration over an inadequate co-conspirator, "he does the same thing while we're fishing, and then he wonders why he doesn't catch anything."

"Hah," Hardcastle pulled himself up straighter, "I got twenty that says I walk away from that river tomorrow with more trout than the two of you put together."

Mark smiled. _Hope._

_Hope_ _is what happens when the truth ignores the facts._


End file.
